A 13 hour shift began at 5 o'clock this morning. This was the third such consecutive day of archaic worse-than-slave-like working conditions for MLC Man. No breaks, no daylight, no windows, go to work in the dark, go home in the dark, and spend the last hour tearing the paint off the walls with what's left of one's fingernails through utter desperation to be out of there - such is the legacy of conservative government in Australia. And people wonder why I'm a socialist. Sheesh.
Anyway, all through this I'm dreading the prospect of returning home dog-tired and still needing to complete a 6km run to stay on track with my schedule. Is it insane to stick with it in such trying conditions? Would it really - cosmically speaking - matter if I hit the booze instead and stuffed the training schedule in the metaphorical, or even literal rubbish bin?
Well, actually, yes. It does matter. And it made me angry. Not at first, but it was bubbling away inside.
In sheer bloody-minded desperation I drove home insanely fast, quickly changed into my running gear and jumped on the treadmill before I had time to stop and think about what I was doing. This was a pre-meditated attempt to trick myself into completing the run before I had time to think about it. After all, it was only 6km - if I didn't stop to analyse it, it would all be over before I knew it. But if I allowed myself to contemplate it, I would talk myself into the sensible option of hitting the piss instead. And that would be the thin end of the wedge and all that...
So. I jumped on the treadmill before my brain even registered that I'd got home and in the door. For the first half km I just plodded along at a warm up pace. But then something strange happened. Really strange, and totally unexpected. The second song I heard on my run did something weird to me. There was just something about it - it was really primal and on exactly the right beats per minute and it just got under my skin. All that pent up anger and frustration at the effing conservatives who ruined this effing country with their effing labour reforms and effing attitudes toward the average poor bloody effing worker spilled out and seemed to surge into my legs...
I ran faster and faster and then faster still and smashed my PB for 6km. I felt fan-bloody-tastic and discovered in rather incredulous style that sheer utter bloody mindedness is an astonishing performance enhancer.
And now, an hour or so later, I again know for sure that there is a God because the end of my run and my settling down to my first alcohol since last Sunday coincided fortuitously with the airing of one of the all-time greatest ever pieces of television - the "Elephent and the Hen" episode of Black Books. And so now I feel completely satisfied and would even invite (should they come knocking at my door) one of those puss-filled conservative politicians I've been moaning about in for a drink and a viewing of my running log... and maybe an earnest discussion about Marxist economic principles for an encore.
Sorry, but I'm always a bit Bolshy after a PB.
So a mad, mad day. A mad three days in fact. There's still the small matter of a 20km long run on Sunday, but just now I feel utterly indestructable. Bring it on, I say! I'd do it now if there wasn't a half-full bottle of red sitting in front of me...
Where's me red flag?
Oh, there it is...
Track du jour: The Particles (a little-known 70s Sydney band) Let's Bang Bits Of Wood Together, for getting under my skin and allowing me to slap down a mighty PB in the face of adversity, into which I laughingly spit. Ha ha!
Adelaide Marathon Campaign - Week 3 of 16
